| |
“You’re an idiot,” Grace hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Bait,” I murmured back, keeping an eye on Mrs. Smythewhite as she glided further out into the hallway. What would it take to prove she was the killer? A lot more than this if you were seeking an arrest warrant. But the older woman’s glance toward Clarence’s closed door was enough to activate our latent twin-speak.
Grace’s nostrils flared as she caught up with my unspoken assumptions. Was the pelt a mother’s last-ditch attempt to save her ailing offspring? The timeline for that worked out perfectly, with Clarence feeling better soon after each murder in the past.
Grace cocked her head, her rebuttal as obvious as if she’d spoken. But what about kidnapping Clarence?
I rubbed the scratch on my cheek, considering. Did we really know Clarence was being kidnapped that night Luke and I thought we’d rescued him? Perhaps Mrs. Smythewhite had intended another murder and was bringing her son along to strengthen him via proximity to the crime.
It was pure guesswork and we both knew it. Guesswork that made it even less imperative to keep eyes on Clarence.
After all, if Mrs. Smythewhite was killing to save him, she wasn’t likely to harm the boy.
I need you to watch Clarence anyway. Twin-speak couldn’t explain the promise I’d made to Luke, the apology I owed him.
Or perhaps Grace understood that also. Was that why her eyes hardened before she gave me a reluctant nod?
Yes, she’d do this. She would continue backing up my unilateral decisions. But only in the interest of saving Bastion. And only if the lost pelt materialized fast.
All of this passed between us in the time it took for Mrs. Smythewhite to cross the hall until she was conversation-distance away from us. One second, maybe two before my employer reached out toward my pelt.
Her fingers were clawed, her face pinched with greediness. I clenched down on my fur so hard I could feel indentations in my human skin.
No way was I letting her snatch it away from me. No way....
Then the older woman blinked and her expression smoothed just like Grace’s had. She turned away on slippered feet.
“You can show it around to the staff tomorrow,” she suggested over one shoulder. “For now, I suggest you get your beauty sleep.”
***
“YOU’VE BEEN DISSED by a serial killer.”
Grace’s amusement was a truce, so I nodded when she suggested I steal an hour or two of shuteye on Clarence’s floor. I didn’t like leaving her in charge of watching Mrs. Smythewhite alone, but the killer had struck only a few hours earlier. She’d likely do exactly what she told us she was doing—return to her bed.
And, if I’d been wrong about her intentions with regard to her son, I’d be there beside Clarence, ready to catch his mother in the act....
So I snagged the only weapon I had left—a backup dagger stashed in my borrowed bedroom—then entered the teenager’s suite uninvited a second time. Groggily, I stubbed my toe on debris littering the floor, half expecting the glow of a cigarette to materialize on the balcony. Or—more realistically—for the kid curled under the covers to wake.
He didn’t, thank goodness. I had no way to explain why I—supposedly his tutor—was planning to sack out on his floorboards. Not that I expected to sleep with the temperature dialed down to one degree shy of arctic.
Only...I did. Slept like the dead until morning breath wafting across my face woke me. Then adrenaline jolted me fully alert.
Mrs. Smythewhite had slipped my sister and snuck into Clarence’s room without me hearing her. Had she leapt from balcony to balcony and come in that way? And did her route really matter given her presence here?
It didn’t. My hand was on the hilt of my dagger before I even opened my eyes.
The element of surprise is a hefty ally. My blade bit into the skin of the intruder’s throat as I tossed him away from the bed and the boy I protected. His teeth rattled as he struck the floor.
His teeth. Not hers. Oops. This wasn’t Mrs. Smythewhite.
“Oookay!” Clarence’s hands rose while his eyes widened. He looked pitiful in his boxers, hairless chest caved in as if he was the victim of a famine rather than cancer in his bone marrow. “Yeah, you’re the one who’s in the wrong place, not me, dude.”
I blinked. Took in the fact that light streamed in the windows onto my pelt. I’d pulled it over me in the night for warmth, but Clarence had no such protection. Out from under the covers, his teeth chattered. Still, he managed to sound like a petulant teenager as he tossed out a guess about why I was there.
“My mom sent you in here to watch over me, didn’t she?”
I shrugged, sheathed my dagger. Not exactly.
It wasn’t yet time to reveal his mother to be a murderer. Instead, I made a suggestion. “You need to dial back the AC.”
***
I DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE Clarence long enough to find my twin, but sometimes twin-speak works from a distance. Sometimes we know when the other one wants to be found.
No wonder Grace showed up the moment I stepped out into the hall. It must have been later than I thought because she was no longer decked out in my regular clothing. Instead, she wore a dress that would have fit in perfectly for a visit at Buckingham Palace...or for brunch with the DAR.
“How’s Bastion?” I asked, needing reassurance before I could launch into logistics.
Unfortunately, Grace had no reassurance to offer. “Bastion is worse. Much worse.”
I closed my eyes, trying to settle my suddenly queasy stomach. Then I shrugged my worries away and moved on with the necessary next step. “We should swap.”
Dragging Grace into my room, I left the door open a crack so I’d see if anyone came or went from Clarence’s suite while we were occupied. I was halfway out of my clothes by the time I realized my sister hadn’t even begun to strip. “What?”
“You know I can do this part better than you can.”
I forced myself to breathe in long and deep before answering. The trouble was, my twin was right...and wrong.
Yes, Grace was the perfect fit for attending today’s luncheon. She’d been rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous for years as she learned to create clothes worn to the highest-end galas. At the same time, I was the one who’d spent an equal time period dealing with the criminally unstable.
What we really needed was one person who possessed both Grace’s and my experiences. Barring that impossibility, however, I’d choose safety over finesse.
“Grace....” I started. And I didn’t have to lay out my reasoning. Twin-sense flowed between us. She understood I wanted to take on this role to protect her. I understood my impulse made her royally pissed.
To my surprise, Grace pursed her lips and sidestepped the issue. “Okay. I’ll stay with Clarence. But at least give me the dagger.”
My stomach sank. Was she bound and determined to get herself killed? No wonder my response was more heated than I intended.
“When was the last time you used a blade for something other than cutting steak into dainty little pieces?”
Her verbal slap was twice as hard as mine had been. “During training. After you let our wolfsfells be stolen.”
For a moment, we stood in silence, cast back to those hours of churning emotion in the aftermath of the break-in. Uncle Reason had run all four of us through what amounted to woelfin boot camp. Punches and kicks and takedowns that left us aching and covered in what felt like one big bruise.
“This is my fault, not Honor’s,” he’d informed us. “I should have known you four were old enough to defend yourselves. I shouldn’t have kept treating you like kids.”
At the time, I’d been so intent upon making up for my own lapse that I’d failed to notice Grace’s reaction. While I worked harder than I’d ever worked to learn my uncle’s lessons, she’d floundered and fumbled and gradually withdrawn.
Then, in the evenings after dinner, I’d brushed off Grace’s requests that I help her catch up. “You don’t need to,” I’d answered. “I’ve got this. I can protect us.”
Was that the moment my relationship with my sister started eroding? When I stopped treating her like an equal twin?
If so, there was only one solution—to step back now and provide the trust I’d withheld a decade earlier. So, even though I didn’t want to, I pressed the dagger deeper into its sheath then unsnapped the holster from around my thigh.
I didn’t hand over the weapon immediately however. Instead, I repeated the words Uncle Reason had used to begin each bladed training session.
“Carrying a weapon is dangerous. If you let a dagger be taken away from you, you’ve presented your enemy with a way to end your life.”
From Uncle Reason, the words had been powerful warning. From me—I realized one second too late—they came across as yet one more assertion of my weapon-wielding superiority.
No wonder Grace snatched the dagger so fast it would have nicked both of us if it hadn’t been deep in a leather holster. “You don’t trust me.”
How to explain that I felt like I no longer knew her? “I....”
My twin attached the sheathe to her leg as easily as if she put one on every morning. “I don’t trust you either. So whatever plan you have in your head, make sure it works. Because if Bastion dies, then I’m gone.”